


Used to Be A Spark

by NothingxRemains



Series: Safe With Me [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Dark Stiles, F/M, Feral Behavior, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Idk if that actually counts, M/M, Magic Stiles, Magical Shenanigans, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Other, Polyamory, Stiles-centric, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, Witches, flower symbolism, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-10 22:42:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8942320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingxRemains/pseuds/NothingxRemains
Summary: The pack has no idea what Stiles is capable of. Then a coven of witches abducts a few of them, and they wonder if the Stiles they know is even real.





	1. Let It Leave It's Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Digital Daggers - Bad Intentions."
> 
> So I was gonna write a pwp and then I realized that I've never written more than a couple hundred words on the subject. So. That was awkward. 
> 
> Anyway, this is basically the pack finding out about Stiles' dark side. I might finish the pwp later. I plan to do the pack integrating Boyd's little sister after this.
> 
> Oh yeah, happy holidays!

More trouble finds the pack eventually; it's the beginning of a new year but halfway into the school year. After a few months the pack had more or less settled into alignment with each other. Now all that's left is waiting for the younger pack members--Erica, Isaac, and Boyd, all one grade below the rest of them--to finish their final semester in high school before figuring out what to do next.

Chris, Scott Lydia, and Derek are all currently strung up to different trees by their ankles. Scott and Derek are out cold in magically induced comas, and Chris and Lydia have been paralyzed by similar means. Blood is crusted over their left cheeks, clotting thin lacerations the coven of ‘vigilante witches’ (Stiles and Lydia had aggressively debated it once to pass the time; they weren't supernatural vigilantes, they were just trying to stay alive) had made to leave blood smears to get their point across: they had Stiles pack members, they weren't safe, they were a very real threat.

Chris hung there trying to sort out his internal conflict, having given up a few hours ago on mentally exhausting himself struggling fruitlessly against the magic. He altered between worrying when they were going to slit their throats like sacrifices and bleed them into a bucket, and worrying about his… Well, his boyfriends. Peter’s bloodlust left something to be desired and required constant supervision. Usually Chris and Stiles were there to temper it but Chris was currently here, hanging from a tree, and Stiles had probably gone off the deep in reaction to his packmates’ abductions. 

That was another thing altogether. After becoming a werewolf, the two halves of Stiles’ personality interchanged bits and pieces more easily than before. Sometimes his measured silence would betray his thoughts; sometimes, when rough housing with the pack, they would catch him off guard and he would suddenly flip and have a throat caged between his claws. These things were chalked up to changes caused by his new instincts, and had yet to see Stiles in full lockdown. Without Chris there to anchor them properly he was extremely worried about what this new revelation would do to the pack.

While Chris worried over all this to pass the time, Lydia watched the coven, and listened.

 

\----

 

The loft is very, very quiet. The pack had been there for a while, all of them passed out on the mountain of pillows after hours of combing through the Preserve. Peter still twitched restlessly, even though he had searched nearly twice as long as everyone else. 

Stiles is standing by the window, eyes illuminated red in the reflection of the glass. He’s been there since they got back, unmoving and silent as a grave. Every few minutes his claws gave a slow  _ tap, tap, tap, _ to the window pane, the sound of blood dripping in his ears.

He’d concluded while the pack was asleep that there was magic involved here keeping them away from whatever patch of land his pack were being kept. He had caught the scent of ozone, the smell of magic that made him want to sneeze, while searching the woods. Just a whiff of it, and he turned to track it only to find he wasn't where he had been. If magic is being used then it's most likely that whoever is using it is responsible for his missing pack mates. His mind casts a reference back to some old tales he’d read in one of Peter’s books; things he'd read about the nemeton, how it was impossible to find unless you knew where it was, or it wanted you to find it. He thought of the trees intentionally smeared with his mate’s blood, surrounded by a tame but thick ring of lobelias and marigolds flowering out of season. When he’d pick one it had withered and crumbled between his fingertips, as had all the handfuls he had ripped from the ground in a frantic fit just before the quiet rage crept in.

He’s not sure what whoever has them wants. The logical thing to do is enlist Deaton’s expertise but he’s not exactly at full capacity. He decides, in the end, that it doesn't matter. He punctures his thumb and signs the door with a smear of blood and uses it to channel magic enough to create a barrier, then leaves without a word.

The alpha travels through the dark forest, follows his memory back to the tree in a ring of flowers. He touches the blood, draws the scent of it deep into his lungs, and digs his claws into his palms. With a burst of raw magic he overrides anything in the area, and suddenly Chris is hanging from the tree in front of him, unconscious. He whirls immediately, but there's no witches. All of his pack members are out cold and hanging from the trees. He snarls and cuts the wolves loose and lets them fall to the ground in the hopes that it will wake them up if nothing else, scoops Lydia up in one arm before he cuts her rope and catches her legs, sets her down gently against the tree, makes sure they're all breathing, before cutting Chris down and sitting with him. The man’s head lolls against Stiles’ shoulder and he feels a burning hatred for whoever took them, but a quick search reveals that aside from his cheek he’s mostly fine. Stiles just buries his face in his throat, and waits. 

 

\--

 

The sun is coming up when Scott and Derek come around, groaning and clutching their heads. They look confused as they glance around blearily, but they manage to sit up.  He lets them get their bearings but he's still beyond speech at this point, glowering with red eyes from where he’s curled up around Chris while he lets them get their bearings. 

Scott looks concerned when Stiles won't answer his increasingly frantic questions, and Derek calms him a little by saying he’s a little feral from losing his pack members, he’ll be fine. It's not what's actually happening, and Scott is still freaked out but he leaves Stiles alone. Derek checks Lydia out to make sure she's okay, and once they both manage to climb to their feet Stiles stands up with Chris in his arms, pointedly looks at the banshee, and then turns and starts walking away. Derek picks Lydia up and follows him, and Scott just trails behind him looking confused. 

The rest of his pack are in a spitting rage by the time they get back. They can hear snarling and yelling from inside it before they even pile out of the jeep and head up the stairs. The barrier parts around them and closes again behind them like water, and all the angry exclamations fall short when they see their missing pack members. Stiles snarls at Allison and Peter, draws the man closer to his chest and retreats into a corner, resumes the position he had before Scott and Derek had woken up.

  
He loses focus after that, lets the pack handle themselves and mindlessly snarls at anyone who draws within five feet, focuses on Chris’ heartbeat while he waits for the man to wake up.


	2. Let The Poison Sink In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I suddenly decided I couldn't cram as much as I wanted into two chapters, because I either write the whole chapter in one sitting or I get halfway through it then never finish it. I know some of you are probably annoyed by how short my chapters are but hey, its supposed to be a thing you do for fun, right? 
> 
> Not a lot happens in this chapter. On the upside, there will probably be at least two more chapters after this.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that,  curled up in the corner and coveting the incapacitated hunter, mindlessly snarling at anything that wanders too close. Between one blink and the next he passes out hunched over Chris with his face tucked into the man’s throat.

He’s suddenly awake and not sure why, dislodges his face from where its smushed into his boyfriend's shoulder. He sits up and looks around, notices a distinct lack of bodies peaking out from around the couch. There's a few there, like Peter, who is slouched against the closest armrest, heart beating a steady drone in his chest. There's a mop of hair that looks like Cora’s and three other heartbeats of people he can't see. He’s pretty sure two of them are Derek and Allison, but he’s not concerned enough to find out for sure; the scents of the whole pack have saturated into the makeshift den over the last few months, so scent is mostly useless.

Stiles takes a few seconds to absorb all that information into his sleep addled brain before looking down to check on his charge again. He just sits and gazes at the mans for a little while, and feels a frown pull at his mouth as he notices something off. For all Chris’ limp and unconscious appearance, the muscles in his back seem unusually tense and the uptick in his pulse is steadily increasing. Stiles thinks that's what probably woke him up, since he’d been incessantly monitoring it until it lulled him to sleep.

“Chris?” he calls quietly, running a hand over his face. The hunter immediately goes rigid all over, eyes snapping open. That's his only warning, and if he hadn't been so groggy from sleep, his reflexes probably would have saved him.

As it were, a furious snarl rips from the man's lips and a glint of metal has Stiles lurching back into the wall six inches behind him, smacking his skull hard on the concrete wall in his attempt to escape. In those handful of seconds he’s every bit the scared teenager people mistake him for, abandoned by the alpha in the wake of his suddenly murderous packmate.

It only lasts a few seconds. He’s a little dazed from the impact and almost misses the echoing snarls from the other side of the room. The knife gets knocked off target and splits the side of Stiles’ shoulder. The poison instantly turns the split second numbness of severed nerves into almost burning agony that races through his arm and the side of his chest, making all the muscles lock up and the airs in his lungs seize. He barely registers Derek and Cora yanking Chris off of him, of Peter's concerned face appearing over him as he writhes helplessly on the ground.

A distant part of his brain starts  reciting wikipedia information at him, something about aconite causing irregular heart beat and lowering blood pressure, which causes lower body temperature. Not a good thing when he’s still losing blood; at least, he thinks he is. The wolfsbane coating the knife(of  _course_ it was, Chris is nothing if not a hunter, he really should not be as surprised as he is) is probably preventing it from healing. His only reference is when Kate shot Derek, but he couldn't tell if it was the poison or the bullet itself holding the wound open and someone's probably going to have to cut his arm off, aren't they. It didn't come from a bullet they can crack open and shove it where it hurts, how are they going to fix it?

His mind continues spiraling randomly, and it's the only thing he can hear over the roaring pain, just barely. He can tell he’s being moved because the liquid fire in his veins flares into straight up agony on every impact, but he’s no longer lucid and can't make sense of anything his tailspinning thoughts. Then the fire eats those too.

He wonders if this is what Peter felt like.

\----

He almost gets used to the sensation in his weird state of existence between asleep and awake, when you’ve stopped dreaming and you're just laying in the dark, waiting for the acid and glycine pumping in your system to wear off so you can get up. The fire has been there long enough to make everything feel timeless, like this is just where he belongs now.

He doesn't realize how much it still hurts until it's suddenly gone, leaving him feeling like he just got dumped in an ice bath as he gasps his way into the waking world, flailing and freaked out and sucking in air like he’s drowning. His hands grab onto the first thing they smack into and clutches at it for dear life.

It happens to be a shoulder. It takes him a minute to realize that Peter is there and that the shoulder he's undoubtedly squeezing the circulation out of is attached to him. Sounds come flooding back into his ears, and he didn't realize how quiet it had been until that moment, but it's nice that the first thing he hears is Peter's voice.

“It's okay, you're fine, everything's fine,” Peter soothes, calm and quiet and steady. It's so unlike the Peter he knows, and he didn't think even someone dying would appropriate behavior out of him.

He's giggling before he knows it, hoarse and maybe more than a little hysterical, fingers digging into the meat of Peter's bicep while the man abandons his comforting in favor of staring at him in increasing concern.

His knee falls to the side and bangs against the edge of the metal table he's sprawled on, cutting off the sound of his climbing his hysteria like a gunshot. Then he sees something over Peter's shoulder and remembers that Peter's face isn't the only thing in existence and his gaze sweeps around the room blearily. He catches Lydia's laser stare and Deaton’s veneer of calm, nearly falling off the table to take in the clinic around him, only Peter's hand on his knee halting his descent over the side. That's when he realizes he's shivering  hard enough to rattle the table, and he feels a deep chill that he think he wouldn't be able to shake even if he shoves his claws in down to his bones.

  
He suddenly feels like he's been awake for months, and doesn't fight when the darkness drags him back under.


	3. Sifted Through The Wreckage, Couldn't Find Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys. I didn't have internet for most of the month so I had the document written up on my computer but I couldn't post it. But its back on now, and yeah I'm still winging the entire plot. The chapter jumps around a little, buts it is almost 3k words long, so. There's that.
> 
> In other news, I totally predicted Claudia dying in the hospital bed with kid Stiles in her arms. Not sure whether to feel like shit about that or what. Oh yeah, I will be adjusting the Sheriff's name to fit canon, so 'John' will be 'Noah.' 
> 
> Random note about the author: My hair was like, half way down my back, and then I got it shaved right after Christmas so now I look like S01 Stiles. Except, yknow, with glasses. 
> 
> Uh, enjoy?

Peter wonders what Stiles was like, as a child. If he was born with two people in his skin like he is now, or if it was sparked by something. Something traumatic, like a car accident, or a pet dying. Something comparable to your whole family burning to death around you.

 

Peter has always excelled at everything to prove to himself that Talia was only treasured by their parents because she was the oldest, alpha material. The best grades, the highest paying career, the most control. Even selfless, once upon a time. Until he learned that things would be taken from him whether he wanted it to or not, and that he never got anything he did want unless he took it for himself. He became the most honest, but only to himself. Learned to protect himself, because while his pack protected him from outside threats, there was no one to protect him from his family. Before even reaching his teenage years, he had mastered the art of manipulation. 

 

He's learned that Stiles' definition of selfish is different. He only shares things that belong to him with certain people, because those people also belong to him. He doesn't doubt that it stems from the day he learned that people weren't permanent fixtures, discovered he couldn't keep them no matter how much he wanted to. Even if they loved him.  Even if they said they'd always be there for him.

 

He imagines Stiles as a small child, curled up into his mother's side in the hospital bed, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic covering the stench of death and misery. Reading his favorite book again while she runs her fingers through his hair, enjoying the last of their time together until the illness takes her away for the last time. Until the shaking eases and the caresses slowed down, then stop altogether.

 

"I love you so much, baby," she says quietly, eyelashes fluttering as she fights for a little longer.

 

"I love you too, mommy," he says, slouching down in her embrace and closing his eyes.  Memorizing the feeling of her arms around him and the beat of her heart one last time. "Goodnight, mommy."

 

A quiet laugh. "Goodnight, baby." 

 

That was the last he'd had of her, before he walk up to the shrill of a heart monitor and the panicked sounds of people around him; his mother still warm where she lay next to him, limp arms still cradling him. But that wasn't what he remembered from that day, wasn't what haunted him when he stood over her grave at her funeral or every year since, every time he accidentally looked at a picture of her. A quiet laugh, like life was a joke and she drew her last breath to laugh at it.

 

"Goodnight, baby."

 

\--

 

Peter remembers Stiles telling him that, when it was still just the two of them, and the anniversary of her death came up. He remembers marvelling at the strength of the teenager next to him, quietly comforting him until the exhaustion and the alcohol he'd consumed coaxed him to sleep on the grass over her grave.

 

He thinks of these things as he sits on the corner of Derek's bed, watching his alpha sleep, listening to the pack futility attempt to snap Chris out of whatever spell he's under. That's clearly what it was, Peter had been the first to point out the confusion that kept crossing the man's face any time he looked at Allison or Peter, when they told him what he did to Stiles. He was currently shackled to a support beam and stripped to his underwear(suggested by Allison, who was not ignorant to the extent of her father's resourcefulness, much to Peter's approval and amusement.)

 

Scott and Derek sit tensely on the couch, wary of whatever had been done to Chris happening to them. Lydia sat in a chair by the window after instructing everyone to not let her leave under any circumstances. Cora and Erica stationed on beanbags in front of the door to ensure none of them leave. 

 

Stiles wakes up an hour after they bring him back from Deaton’s, groaning and groggy. “The fuck happened,” is the first the out of his mouth, eliciting a snort from Peter that alerts him to the older man's presence. He makes grabby hands at him before even bothering to peel his eyelids open, getting smacked away for his trouble. 

 

“Chris stabbed you; or tried to, anyway. It seems that some sort of spell was cast on him while he was being held captive.” He says it sardonically and for a moment Stiles has the mental image of Peter crossing his legs and filing his nails like Lydia does when trying to ignore the plebeians around her.  He giggles without thinking, and he finally opens his eyes to see that no, the image does not match reality, Peter's just looking at him with both eyebrows raised like his sanity is in question. It might be, if he’s being honest, but that’s nothing new.

 

Stiles snorts at his expression and sits up. And then the words catch up with him and he's throwing the covers off to get to his feet. “Wait where is he, how long was I out?” He asks, padding forward a few feet to see everyone gathered downstairs. Most of them are attempting to relax and distract themselves but he can see how tense they all are, can feel the bonds like taut wires in his mind. 

 

He looks at Chris and probes at the pack bond they share, and the hunter's eyes snap to his. He's answered by a wave of anger and confusion, loud and messy. His face is about expressive as a brick wall but he can feel the haze of hate like a blanket, thick and oppressive, smothering everything else. Stiles pulls at it and feels it come undone under his magic. His expression starts to clear, and then the spell snaps back almost viciously, reforming itself and his eyes cloud over under its influence. 

 

Stiles sways with the force of it, and then Peter is at his back and steadying him. 

 

“Jesus,” he says, and all the wolves’ eyes are on him. He realizes that his pulse is racing. He slumps against Peter and just breathes for a minute, until his heart beat is near some semblance of normal. He just shakes his head to clear the sudden dizziness. “I’m okay, I’m alright,” he says, moving Peter’s hand from his arm to hold it in his own, leading the other man down the staircase with him. “Do we have any food? I’m starving.” 

 

He hears a couple of snorts, but the only one that moves is Boyd, who crawls out of the pillow nest from his spot next to Isaac, and Allison, who continues her pacing a few feet from her father. “Thank you Boyd,” Stiles says as the beta passes him, which is answered by a silent hand wave that Boyd doesn’t even stop to make before he disappears around the corner, though he can still hear his footsteps. He glances around the room and purses his lips, unsure of where to sit. He’s sure most of the pack would have a fit if he sat too close to Scott or Derek or Lydia. In the end he settles on the last few steps of the staircase where he’d been standing, Peter rolling his eyes but otherwise not protesting and settling on the step behind him so Stiles can lean back against him. 

 

Boyd appears in front of him a couple minutes later with three sandwiches and a bottle of water, which he takes with enthusiasm, clasping the back of his neck gently and scenting him until his shoulders untense a little before releasing him to settle back into his vacated spot next to Isaac. 

 

He thinks as he eats, ignores the looks of disgust Lydia and Allison send him. Wishes he had brought his crime board here instead of at home with his dad but not willing to send someone out of his sight long enough to get it. He makes do with laying out all the pieces in his mind, spinning a web of information and trying to see which pieces connect. 

 

He does this for a couple hours, wanders around the room scent marking most of his packmates, stares out the window, then leans against it and eyes flicking from person to person. Settles down between Boyd and Isaac, watches the game they’re trying distract themselves with without seeing any of it.

 

He has a few theories, most of them based on cirmcumstantial evidence and logic, but he settles on the ones that he can test. He’s standing with his back to the door, a few feet out of range of Allison’s pacing trail, eyes wandering from Chris to his betas on the couch, settling on Lydia last, who meets his gaze after a few seconds like she can feel his stare.

 

If the witches cast magic on Chris while they had him then they most likely did on the other three, right? He reaches out to Lydia first, traces the bond back to her and searches her psyche for any foreign magic, finding a small bead of it without much difficulty. It seems dormant, so Stiles pokes at it.

 

He immediately regrets it. It's like stepping on a landmine; Lydia's eyes widen, and her mouth opens but he can't hear anything over the spell chasing his magic across the bond. He feels weak all of a sudden, stumbling to his knees and only peripherally aware of Peter suddenly at his side. He shoves magic at the spell. It rebounds and it feels like a sucker punch to his brain, and he loses awareness. 

 

It's over by the time he comes to his senses a few minutes later, on the bed again. He's surrounded by most of his pack staring down at him in worry. He opens to assure them that he's fine, and then becomes aware that something is wrong. Well, more wrong than a magical parasite using his own magic against him (He doesn't know he said that out loud until a few of their eyes widen in alarm, but he knows that’s what happened when he basically knocked himself out). It's too quiet and he feels like his head’s underwater. He sits up and the feeling of wrongness only grows, but he doesn't know what it is. 

 

It takes him a minute, but the realization steals his breath. He can't hear their heart beats, can't smell Peter's aftershave or Derek’s shampoo or soap even though he's laying in the man's sheets, or the scent of pack that constantly permeates the loft. He tells himself not to panic, it might not mean what he think it means, should check everything before he jumps to any conclusions. Holds his hand up and focuses, tries to shift, but his nails remain blunt and human. He's not a werewolf anymore. But that would mean… he searches his mind for the pack bonds but comes up blank.

 

He becomes aware of the whole building shaking and people shouting, the windows rattling in their frame. He realizes that the whole building is about to come down around them because he’s freaking out, and that if nothing else halts his escalating panic. At least he still has his magic. The shaking stops and he calms down as the aftershocks die out. 

 

Werewolf or not, he feels the desperate need to be close to his pack like he did when he first became their alpha. He clutches at Peter's hand and he squeezes back before laying down and practically glues himself to Stiles’ side. Everyone else seems to sense the shift because they all crawl onto the bed after him until he's surrounded on all sides, boxed in by their bodies like living shields.. He just breathes for a minute as the tightness in his chest slowly eases.

 

“I'm not a werewolf anymore,” he says. He thinks he does, anyway. He can’t hear too well past his thoughts skipping like a broken record, the meaning of those words shrieking inside his skull.

 

Because yeah, it means he doesn’t have awesome super powers anymore and convenient box cutters and lettuce shredders, or eyes that make it look like somebody stuck glowsticks in his eyesockets or give him night vision. He could live with that, because he had done just fine without it the eighteen years before that.

 

But.

 

It also means he’s not an alpha anymore.

 

It means he can’t be  _ their _ alpha anymore.

 

His breath hitches and Erica and Scott squirm closer, soothing him with a hand through his hair and an arm over his chest. It registers distantly that he might be in shock, or maybe having a panic attack, or something, because the world seems like its pressing in on him and the only thing keeping it away is Allison wrapped around his legs and a hand on his ankle, Isaac’s arm anchoring him over his stomach and Peter pressed against him from shoulder to hip, Erica’s hand running methodically through his hair. He can’t see them, can’t take his eyes off the ceiling, but even though he doesn’t have his super senses he can still hear them breathing softly, can still feel them and soak up their warmth and trust them to protect him.

 

Except he can’t. He can’t because even though he’s been on the receiving end of a magic bad-touch he’s still supposed to be their alpha, still has to protect them, to eliminate the threat and fix this. 

 

He tries to tell himself that being stripped of his werewolfiness doesn’t necessarily mean he’s been stripped of alphahood, and that if humans can be pack there’s no particular reason one can’t be an alpha. He can feel the panic clawing at the edges of his awareness again, so he clutches at the line of thought.

 

As a alpha werewolf he could feel a pack bond to each member, humans included, though he never thought to ask if they could also feel it (he imagines they could, to a lesser extent, but he intends to ask them as soon as he untangles his theory). That means theoretically he’s still a part of the pack, and to be shifted from his position of alpha to a beta wouldn’t make sense, unless he was severed from the pack completely (something he’s not willing to check just yet). He’s willing to bet there’s never been a human alpha in recorded history, not that he’s going to ask Peter for that information, or even Chris.

 

The thought of his other boyfriend snaps his attention in a whole different direction.

 

(He doesn’t notice all the wolves watching him intently, listening to the words he hasn’t realized are coming out of his mouth instead of staying in his brain like he thinks they are.)

If he’s no longer a werewolf, does that mean Chris is no longer fixated on killing him? Or is the spell driven to eliminate the whole pack? Just werewolves? Something he should ask the others, about their interactions with the hunter while he was unconscious. 

 

He feels a tug on his brain that halts his thought process like a train wreck, his attention redirecting to the presence that feels sharp, makes him think of the sharp click of a heel in a silent graveyard. His eyes sweep the room until they land on Lydia, and he knows she’s probably made an accurate guess at most of the things runninng around in his brain when he finds her already staring at him. She tugs again and he tugs back, searches his mind and tugs on each bond one by one, feels them light up with acknowledgement. 

 

He lets out a breath and melts into the mattress beneath him, relief making him weak. They’re faint, he has to actively search them out can’t parse out their emotions or their exact locations from it despite them all being within ten feet of each other, but he  _ can _ feel them.

“...iles. Stiles.”

 

He’s drawn out of his head with a hand on his cheek, Peter’s forehead against his and searching his eyes with something akin to worry. “Stop thinking,” he says, and Stiles makes a face at him and opens his mouth when Allison interrupts. “It’s late. There’s not much we can do while we’re all freaked out and exhausted. We’ll set up a watch so there’s one person awake at all times, okay? Just,” she takes a deep breath and lets it out in a tired sigh. “Just try to get some more sleep. We’re here, we’re not going anywhere.”

 

Stiles bites down on his lip to quell the immediate protest, sighing in defeat when he sees at least three faces that look prepared to hold him down if they have to.  _ Not like that would take much effort now _ , he thinks sourly, gripping the arm on his waist and tucking his face into Peter’s neck, blinking against the bitter tears that threaten to fall when he can’t smell anything beyond the heat of his skin and his soap. He lasts ten seconds before he makes a sound in the back of his throat thats closer to upset than angry, maneuvering until his ear is presses to Peter’s chest and he’s using the man’s shoulder for a pillow, dragging Isaac with him by the arm while everyone else shifts to fill the space left behind. 

 

It doesn’t take as long as he thinks it would, for the presence of pack and the steady _thump-thump_ under his ear to lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, any story ideas are welcomed, because I am making things up as I go.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of the chapter? Kudos and comments are appreciated! : D


End file.
